


Hands

by peg22



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Crack, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1405093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peg22/pseuds/peg22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House injures his leg and is at the mercy of Wilson, Cuddy, and the ducklings. There are hands and shoes and post op nightmares. Fun, Fun, Fun.<br/>Set somewhere during Season 1, 2, or 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007 - before Cuddy, before Amber, before all the other little ducklings came waddling through the door. When it was just them. When House loved Wilson and Cameron loved House and Cuddy rolled her eyes a lot. (and who knows what Chase and Foreman were getting up to . . .)

Today, he watched their hands. He had watched their feet for months. Bad shoe choices all around. Except Chase. Probably influenced by his European-born father. He had registered a small sense of satisfaction when Foreman had started wearing the same shoes. Paid too much for them. Couldn’t pull them off, but in his more expansive moments he could at least acknowledge the effort. Appreciate the gesture. The homage. The obeisance.

Today though, it was all about the hands. 

Foreman’s were typical. Man hands. One large ring. Stubs for nails. Shoved them in his pockets a lot. Some other day he would figure out why. 

Chase. Boy hands. Too pretty. Almost everything about Chase was too pretty. Lips, hair, eyes, ass. Except that avaricious little mind of his. Not pretty. 

That left Cameron. He watched her fingers flying over the keyboard, intent in her task of letting another patient down as gently as possible. The long slender fingers, the appropriately buffed and clearly polished nails blurred in action as she carried out one altruistic task after another. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine those nails raking down his back, tearing off a layer of his skin . . .

He turned quickly back toward the boys and away from the danger of imagining Cameron doing anything but annoying him, and as he did, his right toe caught in the carpeting, twisting his knee in an entirely different direction than the one he wanted to go. His upper body twisted the opposite way, and he felt himself tipping over. He fell against the chair, hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto, and then he was on the floor. The effect on his injured thigh was like wringing out a dishrag. He hissed in pain and grabbed at his leg, curling up in a ball, half under the table, the chair turned over beside him. His mind then registered an unusual sensation. His knee hurt worse than his leg. White hot pain ripped through every nerve in his body and he howled. Loud.

Foreman was the first to reach him. Through the pain, he took note and decided to give him a raise and a new name – Moves Quickest in an Emergency.

“House – where’s your Vicodin?”

He struggled to push enough air into his lungs to answer. “Not . . . leg . . . knee.”

“You hurt your knee?” Cameron knelt down beside him, placed a hand on his back. So close to the fantasy, yet so far away. 

“Keep him still.” Foreman bent over his leg, trying to assess the damage.

Cameron moved her other hand to his hip, rubbing lightly as she pressed him to the floor. He thought of many new names for her. But then Foreman probed his knee and he flinched, biting down on his lip to suppress his overwhelming need to scream like a girl. He ground his teeth, twisted his shoulders, tried to escape the pain. His thrashing sent Cameron back into Foreman, who quickly recovered and threw himself over House, yelling to Chase, “Get Wilson.”

No need. Wilson had heard the noise from his office and walked into the disturbing picture of House curled up in a ball on the floor with his three children huddled around him.

“What happened?” He quickly joined them. 

“He fell on his leg.” Chase moved to give Wilson room at House’s head.

“Not . . . leg . . . knee.” House panted and then grabbed Wilson’s arm. “Hurry.”

“Get me morphine. Now.” Wilson pried House’s fingers off his arm and rubbed House’s shoulder. “Relax, try to relax.”

“Stat,” House croaked. “Doctors say stat.”

Wilson ignored him and looked at Foreman. “Help me turn him over.”

“No.” House fought against the hands. He knew from instinct and experience that any attempt to straighten out any part of him would result in pain. More pain. No more pain.

“House, look at me.” Wilson grabbed both sides of House’s face. “You need to stay still. Did you hear a pop? A tear? Are you sure it’s not your leg?”

Chase rushed in the door with the syringe, followed by two nurses rolling a gurney. He handed the syringe to Wilson, who popped the top and started rolling up House’s shirt sleeve.

“In my leg.” House managed to curl up tighter. Intellectually knew it did nothing to relieve the pain, but he had also learned, in countless agony-filled dawns, that if he made himself seem smaller, then the pain would lessen. At least in his mind. Where it counted. 

“No, not the leg. We don’t know the extent . . . get me something to immobilize his knee,” Wilson barked at the nurses. “And get me something for the blood.”

“Blood?” House wheezed and realized his mouth was full. Of blood.

“You bit right through your damn lip – here, spit.” Wilson held up an end of his pristine, never wrinkled, perfectly white lab coat and House did as he was told. He must be worse off than he thought. 

He decided to rename Wilson – Bossy in an Emergency. He felt a prick in his arm, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the morphine, willing it to move faster through his entire torso down to his damn leg. Knee. Somewhere in his anguish, he wondered what he did to his knee. He wondered if he would need surgery. He remembered that Chase had not only brought a syringe, but nurses and a gurney. Helpful. He would call him – Quickest Thinker in an Emergency.

“This may hurt.” Wilson’s voice in his ear. Soothing. Apothecary. How did he do that? He opened his eyes to see them all surrounding him. Felt them move in close, reach for him, all those hands. All that help. He felt Wilson’s hands slide under his damaged leg. Wilson’s hands. Now they were something to contemplate. Perfectly tapered. Immaculately manicured. A surgeon’s hands. Wasted on cancer kids.

He felt himself being lifted. The shifting of his weight as they all struggled for balance jarred Wilson, causing him to stumble slightly, sending House over into uncharted territory. He felt like his head was being torn from his shoulders. Too much pain. He finally gave in to it, screamed like a girl and tumbled into darkness. 

 

**********

 

The first thing he noticed was the beeping. Steady. Familiar. Oddly comforting. The second thing he noticed was the tube jammed down his throat, the adhesive tape that clung too tight to his cheek. Intubated. Damn. He tried to open his eyes, but they were still too heavy, still held shut by the layers and layers of cotton he was drifting through. That’s when he heard the . . . snoring? Where the hell was he? He fought through the fuzz and managed to crack open his left eye. Wilson. Asleep in one of those torturous lounge chairs. Scrunched down, head cricked against a shoulder, leg flung over the arm of the chair. No tie, wrinkled shirt, one shoe. One shoe? He concentrated, blew the rest of the fuzz out of his head, and commenced his own diagnostic.

He remembered falling. He remembered Foreman laying on him. He remembered Wilson yelling. His knee. The last layer fell away and he remembered everything, every agonizing minute shrieked back into his brain. Damn. He wriggled his fingers. IV. Left hand. At least someone had been paying attention. Probably Cuddy. Leave it to her to make sure he wouldn’t be able to get out of clinic duty because of a sore cane hand. He felt for his legs. Still attached. A good sign. That kind of déjà vu he did not need. A man can only take waking up to missing body parts so many times in his life. 

He probed his thigh. Couldn’t feel a thing. Could be good or bad. Kept probing until his hand touched metal. Damn. It was either a fracture or he needed to buy a parrot, get an eye patch, start using the word “arrgh.” Both options made him nauseated.

He struggled until he could get both eyes open and then he looked down. Fracture. Perfect. He glanced over at his vitals. Looked okay. Then why the hell was he still intubated? He stopped for a moment and tried to feel exactly what kind of meds he was on. Better than Vicodin, no doubt, but the rods sticking out of his leg made him wonder if it was just good times left over from the anesthesia. 

He conducted another experiment. He moved his left leg. No pain. Dependable as usual. So far, so good. He took a breath and then attempted to move his right leg, but the slightest twitch shot pain from his knee to the base of his skull. He gasped, which caused him to choke on the tube that he had momentarily forgotten was shoved down his throat. He tried to suck in more air. The beeps quickened. He heard the glass door slide open, felt a hand on his shoulder. Warm, soft. Nurse hands. He couldn’t breathe. He felt like he was dying, which technically, he was. His eyes watered. Great.

“House, relax. Just be still for a minute.” Wilson. He tried to concentrate on the voice. His lungs felt like bricks – nothing moving in or out. He felt hands on his chest, his cheek. He tried to focus on Wilson’s hands. “Hang on; I’m going to get the tube out.” House managed to nod and felt Wilson move closer. “Now try to take a breath and then exhale, hard.” He clung to the words, but felt the world swimming away. The edges grew dark and then the tube was out, and he was choking and retching, leaning into Wilson as he felt the hands rub his back, hold his chest.

“Get him some water – now.” Wilson. Bossy in an Emergency. House wanted to chuckle, but felt that breathing trumped humor at this point, so instead he concentrated on his lungs, felt them expand, resume normal function. The beeping slowed; he stopped feeling like he was going to cough an organ onto the blanket, and he relaxed sideways into Wilson’s chest.

He watched Wilson’s hands snatch the cup and then wave a dismissal to the nurse. He wondered if Bossy was planning on taking care of him all by himself. He let Wilson lean him back against the pillows, felt a hand circle the back of his neck to steady him, felt the breath on his cheek as Wilson whispered, “Here, take a drink.” He did as he was told, and then settled into the pillows and took a good look at his new nurse.

“Feeling better?” Wilson looked worried. Anxious. Kept rubbing his arm.

House swallowed, knew it was going to be painful, but he had to know. “Where’s your shoe?” he croaked.

Wilson looked surprised. He looked down at his feet and then back up to House. “That’s your first question? Where’s my shoe?”

“Lost?” One word answers hurt less.

“I don’t know where it is – don’t you want to know about your knee?”

Damn Bossy – reminded him of the reason he was lying here in the first place. He reached for the cup, took a drink and handed it back to Wilson. “Okay, knee – spill it.”

Wilson rubbed a hand across his face. “Well, the first thing you need to know is that McCormick was happy with the surgery.”

House grabbed the hand that was still massaging his shoulder and arm and squeezed hard. “Mac the knife? You let Mac the knife cut into me?” He coughed and Wilson handed him the water. 

“Yes, and I’m not telling you any more until you calm down and stop talking – you’ll only aggravate your throat and all that thrashing around you keep doing will hurt your knee.”

House wondered if renaming Wilson had been a good idea. He nodded, noting that neither of them had bothered to stop holding hands. Wondered if this was all part of Wilson’s gig. His act. Breaking bad news made high art by James Wilson.

“When you twisted your knee, you fractured your tibial plateau. Right under the kneecap.”

House winced and squeezed Wilson’s hand. “Clean?”

“Spiral.”

House winced again, squeezing harder. Spiral was not good. In fact, spiral was the exact opposite of good. In his mind, spiral ranked right up there with infarction.  
“And you managed to tear your meniscus, too. That’s where all the pain's coming from. That and the compromised quad . . . well it was a mess.”

“Mess? Is that your official diagnosis?”

“Well, maybe you want Dr. McCormick to come explain it to you . . .”

“Why’d he do it?”

“He was the surgeon on service.”

“What about the list?”

“Cuddy made the call.”

“I pass out for a minute and you forget all about the list?”

House drew his hand back and folded his arms, scowling. He could feel the pain thundering back into his body. Spiral fracture. Damn. Meant the only good thing about his leg now was his nicely shaped toes. Wondered what Wilson wasn’t telling him. Could see it in his face. Compassion masked concern. His cancer face. Perfect.

“What was I supposed to do? You needed surgery. Fast. We lost your tibial pulse for a while.”

House let out a breath. Damn. Could lightning really strike twice? He was now starting to wonder how the hell Wilson had convinced Mac the Knife not to just whack the useless thing off. The bastard had a reputation for being a quick draw with the buzz saw, which was why he was on the list. The one that Wilson had forgotten, or ignored, whatever. 

“But the list.” House wanted Wilson to at least acknowledge his betrayal.

“Fuck the damn list, House. We were trying to save your leg.”

An odd sense of déjà vu sucked the air out of the room. Wilson took a step back from the bed, ran both hands through his hair. House laid his head back on the pillow as the first wave of post-op pain – the real stuff – burst unceremoniously onto the scene. He hissed through his teeth and gripped the sides of the bed, his knuckles turning white. 

Wilson pushed the call button and then limped to the door. House remembered that he still didn’t know where the missing shoe was. Odd that Dr. Fussy would be traipsing around the hospital in a sock. He closed his eyes and counted the heartbeats through the pain. He felt the needle prick at 50 – Wilson was quick.

“That should help.” Wilson patted him on the arm again. 

House wondered when Wilson had gotten so touchy feely. Not that he was complaining. He was getting attached to those hands. He sighed as the pain subsided to a more familiar level.

“Morphine?” 

“Yes, and you’ve got a Demerol drip.”

“Sweet.” House took Wilson’s hand. He could blame it on the painkillers later, but for some reason he needed to feel that hand in his.

“Shoe.”

Wilson looked puzzled. “Shoe? Your shoes? I don’t know – the nurses put them somewhere . . .”

“No – your shoe.”

Wilson looked down at his foot. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. I don’t know, must be around here somewhere . . .”

“Wilson – where the hell is your shoe?” 

“Why do you care?”

“It’s an anomaly. I hate anomalies – you know that.”

“It’s probably in here somewhere.”

Wilson pulled his hand free and bent down, looking under his chair. He walked over and pushed the curtains aside. He got down on all fours and peered under the bed. He opened and closed drawers. House observed the search with a mild interest. The cotton was drifting back in.

“Really, Wilson, how could you, of all people, lose your shoe? They’re like your children. Especially those loafers. You adore those shoes. You love those shoes. For all I know you make love in those shoes . . .”

Wilson came toward the bed, obviously irritated. “House, shut the hell up about my shoe. I don’t know where it is. You know, things got a little crazy around here for a while. You woke up screaming, we couldn’t get a pulse, I thought Cuddy was going to have a stroke trying to decide once again who was going to operate on your damn leg. Foreman kept pushing her to call Jackson over at County, which was a good idea, but we didn’t have time. And I knew . . .” He hesitated a little, sucked in a ragged breath. “I knew that if you woke up and . . .”

“My leg was gone . . .” House whispered, finally catching up. He was having trouble breathing. “Was it that close?”

Wilson reached for him, but House stopped him from resuming his cancer rub, instead catching his hand and squeezing hard.

“How bad is it? I mean really – how bad? Do I have any use of the leg left?”

“You’re hurting my hand.” Wilson tried to pry his hand away. “Seriously, House – you’re going to pull out your IV.”

House was relentless. He already knew what Wilson was going to say, but he had to hear it. Out loud. The prognosis. Of his fucked up leg and now his fucked up knee. He had sprinted ahead in the story and the ending played out more horror movie than fairy tale. He knew the odds that he would ever be able to use the leg again had to be slim. Wafer thin by the looks of Wilson. 

“Tell me.”

“Let go of my hand.”

“Not until you say it.”

“Say what? That I had to sign the release? That the entire time you were in surgery, I just kept hearing the saw blade? That when Cameron saw your x-ray, she burst into tears? That I can’t believe it happened. Again.”

“Tell me I can’t walk.”

Cuddy walked into the room. “Leave him alone, House. He’s been through enough.” She stood at the foot of the bed, picked up the chart and shook it at House. “Bet you haven’t even read this yet, have you?”

House let go of Wilson and he backed away, massaging his fingers. Cuddy held out his chart and, as he took it from her, he noticed her hands. Strong fingers, lovely cuticles, inappropriate polish. High Rise Hooker Red - now those nails could draw blood. And love every minute of it. He realized he had never really studied her hands, due in large part to her distracting wardrobe – with its large parts. She had nice hands. Doctor hands.

He wondered what could be so damn interesting in his chart. He knew he was fucked. Not hard to figure that out. He wondered how many pins and screws and nails it took to pull his knee back together. He shuddered at the idea of more pain. Referred pain. All pain, all the time. Vicodin had already started to feel like aspirin. How long before Demerol joined the growing list of worthless meds? He tried to remember how much rehab a spiral fracture needed. Last time he had made it a day. This time? Was he really considering a this time? An again? His bravado cracked a bit, self-pity almost made an appearance, but he shoved it all back under the mists of morphine. For now.

He stared at the chart. Flipped it open, felt a pang of guilt as he read. The pang turned into a twinge, which developed quickly into a hitch as he got to the part where Wilson had forced McCormick to sign a notarized document, stating that under no circumstances would he remove the leg without Wilson’s presence AND permission. A redundancy which tore right through House. Wilson. His protector. His second. His . . . 

“You need to go home and get some sleep.” Cuddy was talking to Wilson. “I can stay with him.”

“No, it’s okay, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You need to eat, take a shower . . .”

Wilson placed a hand on Cuddy’s shoulder. “What about you?”

“I’ve been home. Your turn.” Cuddy smiled. “You can take my car.” She squeezed his arm and smiled.

House’s dots were not connecting. They were starting to freak him out a little. All this touching, all the time. He felt like he had accidentally landed in the middle of a General Hospital episode. Touching and Hand Holding ran rampant in Port Charles. Maybe he was mixing his metaphors. 

“Where’s your car?” He didn't have time for soap operas right now. He had two mysteries to solve, two puzzles to work, two symptoms that did not fit. He itched for his board. His markers. Or at least his ball.

“Foreman has it.”

Now the dots weren’t even dots anymore. Just big ugly question marks. “Foreman?”

“Foreman. He took Cameron home.”

“Where’s Cameron’s car? And what happened to Foreman’s car? And where the hell is your shoe?”

Cuddy stepped between them. “Listen, House. Why don’t you let Wilson go home and get some sleep and I’ll stay here and answer all your questions.”

Cuddy was protecting Wilson. Why? House stared at them for a good thirty seconds. Well, it felt like thirty seconds. He couldn’t be sure because the morphine had decided to interact with the Demerol and sent him floating away, almost out of reach. He watched as Wilson moved to the bed, lifted the blanket and gently examined House’s foot, squeezed his toes. House felt oddly detached. Wondered if Wilson was still searching for his shoe. On House’s foot. He felt a giggle rise to his throat.

“So far so good. When’s McCormick coming in? I want to be here for that.” Wilson pulled the blanket back over House’s feet and laid his hand on House’s left leg, massaging gently. “You think you can behave if I go home for a while? Take a shower. Feed your rat?”

“Why are you treating me like an infant? Why won’t you answer my questions? How can you leave me here with Cuddy – she has the morals of an alley cat – who knows what she’ll do now that I can’t defend myself? Where the hell is your goddamn shoe? How can you go home without your shoe? And will you stop with the cancer rub? Please.”

“It’s the morphine talking,” Cuddy said as she took Wilson by the shoulders and steered him to the door. “Go home, James. He’ll be fine. I’ll call you when McCormick shows up.”

Wilson took one quick look at House, lifted his hand and was gone. Cuddy turned back toward the bed. House floated toward the ceiling. He did pause for a moment to name Cuddy – Biggest Balls in an Emergency. The giggle returned. He snorted instead.

“Sleep and talk or talk and sleep?” Cuddy picked up the chart. “You with me enough to understand this?”

“Sort of. Where’s Wilson’s shoe?”

“You don’t want to know. How much did Wilson tell you about your knee?”

They were all avoiding every question. House attempted to clear his head. A waste of good drugs, but he needed to understand, to make sense. He wished again for his white board. His black markers. His nice even rows of letters. Symptoms. Treatments. Answers. He desperately needed answers. They were there, he knew, attached to the strings hanging down from the ceiling, just out of his reach. It was beginning to piss him off. Anger – the perfect antidote.

“Wilson told me that you let Mac the Knife operate on my knee. Traitor.”

“He was the only one available.”

“You could have done it.”

“And you would have lost your leg. You had no pulse below the knee for a good half hour, House. As it was it took McCormick seven hours. . .”

“I was on the table for seven hours? Really?” Finally, an answer. Long surgery, longer recovery, longest rehab. Fuck.

“Really. Then a day in ICU – that’s where Chase removed the clot . . .”

“What clot?”

Cuddy opened the chart and pointed. “The clot you threw three hours after surgery. See, right there. I know you don’t like to write charts, I had no idea it was because you didn’t know how to read them.”

House just stared at the page, at the harrowing history of his last . . . what? Hours? Days? It occurred to him that he had no idea what day it was. 

Cuddy read his mind. “It’s Thursday. You fell on Tuesday.”

“Thursday?” House fell back against the pillows. No wonder Wilson looked like hell. Another wave of guilt swam through the meds as he thought of Wilson sleeping in that god-awful chair. For two days.

“Wilson . . .”

“Been here every minute. I thought he was going to take McCormick out when he first suggested the possibility of amputation. Hell, I would have taken him out myself if I thought it would do any good. You know, the déjà vu got pretty thick around here.” She grabbed House’s hand. He was starting to get used to it. He noticed that Cuddy’s hands were as soft as a baby’s . . .

They both turned at the sound of the door sliding open. Foreman walked in, followed by Chase. 

“How’s he doing?” Foreman asked Cuddy.

“He’s doing just peachy. Where the hell have you been?” House answered before Cuddy could open her mouth. He had to stop all this talking about him. At him. Through him. He had to get just one of them to talk to him. 

“I took Cameron home. You were still asleep . . .”

“Morphine and Demerol – don’t get to close,” Cuddy warned as she moved to the chair and Foreman and Chase stood on each side of the bed. 

“Where’s Wilson’s shoe?”

Chase cocked his head with that confused Labrador face House had come to expect. “His shoe?”

“The man is waltzing around with only one shoe. I expect you to go find it.”

“Find it? His shoe?” Chase frowned.

“God, you’re quick.” House turned his attention to Foreman. “You – where is your car?”

Foreman looked at Cuddy, who just shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “My car?”

“The next one who answers me with a question is so fired. I want to know in no particular order these three things: Where is Wilson’s shoe, what happened to your car, and do I need to invest in a goddamn wheelchair?”

The beeping increased. House’s face grew red, he couldn’t catch his breath, and he reached out and grabbed Foreman’s hand. Cuddy rose from her chair, the nurse rushed into the room, Chase backed away from the bed. House wondered if he should change Chase’s name to – First to Bolt in an Emergency. Then he saw that Chase had just turned to get the ultrasound.

Cuddy laid a hand on House’s chest. “Calm down – just breathe.”

House struggled to do just that, but his heart was beating out of his chest. He needed Wilson. Wilson’s voice. Wilson’s hands. Foreman’s ring was cutting into his fingers. He hated Foreman’s hand. He dropped it and grabbed Cuddy’s. Closed his eyes and concentrated on the pain in his knee. He heard Foreman and Chase talking about clots, Heparin, angiograms. The beats of his heart echoed through his leg and a rush in his ears told him he was heading south. Fast. He wondered if he had thrown another clot. He wondered if Wilson had made it home yet. If he had found his shoe. The last thing he heard as the darkness fell was Cuddy’s voice, shouting in his ear.

“Get Wilson back here – now.”

 

**********

This time when he woke up, he was ripped to consciousness by the pain. Throbbing, slashing, pounding pain. The fucking pain scale didn’t go that high. His eyes flew open and he watched as three people he didn’t recognize, with his leg in their hands, their fat red fingers poking and prodding and twisting. Don’t they know his leg needed to be immobile, perfectly still? That he had no chance of recovery if they continued?

He opened his mouth to protest, but could only groan as a wave of pain sent his teeth through his lip again. Blood spurted, fingers poked, somebody laughed, and then he heard a click, click, click and he watched with horror as Wilson walked through the door, resplendent in a pair of six inch Prada heels. He wondered how he knew they were Prada. Took just a second to be happy there were two. Shoes. Wrong shoes. Wilson. Wilson would make them stop touching his leg. He tried to speak again, but Wilson laid a finger across his bloody lip.

“Shhh, they’re almost done.”

“Done?” House croaked.

“It’ll be gone in a minute. You’ll feel better then.”

House reached for Wilson’s hand. Tried to pull him closer, get him to understand. Wilson dabbed at the blood in the corner of House’s mouth with his scarf. Scarf? House looked again. Not a scarf, really – more like a soft rope, a lanyard string.

“My leg?”

Wilson smiled and patted House’s cheek. “Cameron is already getting rid of your shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Giving them away to charity, I think. Crippled children and all that. I’m not sure – ask Cuddy, she’s the one in charge.”

House blinked, took a breath, tried to think between the pain. There was a bustle of activity and then they were gone. All of them. Except Wilson, who had taken to the chair, legs crossed, swinging his Prada clad foot. House looked down and saw that his leg was . . .

Fuck. He squeezed his eyes closed, chanted. Not real just a dream not real just a dreamjustadreamjustadreamjustadream . . .  
Wilson appeared in his face. “House, what’s the matter? I though that’s what you wanted – to be rid of the pain.”

“My leg . . .”

“No leg, no pain. Haven’t you heard? Can’t you feel it? Do you feel it?”

House had a hard time keeping focused on Wilson’s face, looming so far above him in those damn heels. He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea and then it hit him. The pain. No pain. He felt no pain. He opened his eyes again to see Cuddy standing at the end of the bed, holding up three shoes.

“House, which one do you want to wear?”

“Wear?”

Cuddy looked at his legs and then at the shoes and then back at his leg. “Damn. I gave away all the right shoes. I was sure they were cutting off your right leg. Well, either Cameron is a moron or we made a slight mistake. And by we, I mean you. You should have told Mac which leg you wanted removed. I’m pretty sure the hospital has no liability here. . .”

House looked again at his legs. His left leg was gone. His right leg, in all its tangled mess, was still there. He braced himself as the pain shot its way back through his brain. He closed his eyes and screamed. Like a girl. 

*********  
The fever lasted twenty-four hours. He spent most of that time in the grips of some variation of the same dream. Wilson in hundreds of shoes – from Keds to Kenneth Cole, from Hugo Boss to Hush Puppies. Cuddy blaming him for the loss of his leg, the pain always ripping back in. The only thing that mattered during that time were the hands that massaged his chest, rubbed his forehead. Comfort lived in those hands. He knew those hands. Wilson’s hands. In his more lucid moments he prayed those hands were real.

As he clawed his way out of a particularly bad round of Manolo Blahniks and Cameron using a nail file to hack his leg off, he skipped up an entire level and headed for actual consciousness. Finally. He felt hands on his shoulders, then a knuckle grinding into his chest, another hand squeezing his fingers. 

“House, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.” Wilson’s voice. Wilson’s hands. He heard the beeping again. He opened his eyes. Wilson. He looked down at his legs. Blanket. No blood. No Cuddy with her hands full of left shoes. No Cameron with her nail file. Just Wilson. 

“I’m awake.” 

Wilson gripped the rails of the bed, head bent, shoulders sagged. Stayed that way for a moment. Gave House time to register that the rails were up on his bed, the blinds were all drawn, and Wilson was wearing his shirt. And his jacket. And his shoes . . .

“Shoes . . .”

Wilson slammed the bedrail with the palm of his hand. “For the love of God, House – if you start in about shoes again, I swear I will put you in a coma myself.” Wilson took two steps back and collapsed in the chair, rubbing his temples. 

“Wilson . . .” 

Wilson looked up, shook his head, walked over and took House’s outstretched hand and House sighed with relief. They were real. The hands of his dreams, his nightmares. He knew Wilson had been there the whole time, soothing, comforting. 

“How are you feeling?” 

Funny that he couldn’t tell – didn’t feel like figuring it out himself, either. His diagnostic track record of late was lousy. All that “physician heal thyself” bullshit was wrong, wrong, wrong. He rubbed his thumb across the top of Wilson’s hand. Soft hands. Addictive. 

“How am I?” Simple, straightforward question. So unlike him.

Wilson smiled. “You are a lucky bastard, that’s what you are. Spiked a fever. 104 – a record for you, I think. Had a nasty reaction to all the pain meds – I know, weird, especially for you. Threw not one, but two clots. You’d better send Chase some flowers. The kid had some steady hands. You really shouldn’t ride him so much – he’s got the gift . . .”

“Too pretty.”

“Chase?”

“His hands. Too pretty.”

“Well, whatever. Just know that he scooped up a rather tricky blockage out of your lung in one attempt. It was beautiful.”

“My leg?” House swallowed hard. He felt a little nauseous. His whole body tensed, waiting for the answer. The pronouncement. The knell.

Wilson frowned. “Not so lucky. Infection in the joint caused the fever. Set your recovery back a few weeks . . .”

“Recovery?”

“Yes – I knew you’d be unhappy about that, but you need to think of the bright side . . .”

“Recovery?”

“Yes, recovery, that thing people do after having surgery. Also called getting better. Surely you’ve heard of it . . .”

“I’m not losing my leg?”

“Of course not – why would you . . .” 

House watched Wilson turn two different shades of pink. 

“Hell, we were all so busy distracting you . . .”

“Distracting me?”

“From dwelling on your leg . . . I just assumed Cuddy told you.”

“You told me fracture and torn meniscus. You told me spiral fracture. You told me no leg, no pain . . .”

“I did not . . .”

“Well, that might have been in my dream, but still . . .”

“You had a dream about me?”

House watched Wilson turn another shade – crimson he would guess. All this touching must be getting to him, too. “No, I had hundreds of dreams about you – and you cannot pull off thigh highs no matter what anyone says . . .”

“What?”

House wondered if the fever had turned him soft. Because he couldn’t work up even a hint of the righteous indignation due him. They had all let him think his leg was a goner. Finished. Dumpster dinner. Now Wilson was talking recovery, rehabilitation. 

“How long?” 

“You’ve been out of it for about twenty-four . . .”

“No – the recovery. How long?”

“Depends on you. You have to stay off the leg at least a month – let the fracture heal – the pins set. After that is rehab. If you go. Which you should. Helps with the recovery part.”

House closed his eyes. Took it in. Absorbed the information. Revised the diagnosis. He opened his eyes. Wilson was still talking.

“There’s no way to really know. McCormick rose to the challenge, that’s for sure. He thinks you’ll get most of the mobility back – although, you know it’s already a little tricky because of the thigh . . .”

“So I can walk?”

Wilson began rubbing House’s arm. Again. “Not yet – and if you don’t follow a strict regimen this time, who knows. It’s really up to you, House. Do you want to walk?” 

“Is this a compulsive thing with you, or is it just me?”

Wilson frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“This rubbing thing. I was wondering if it was just me, or do you caress all your patients so intimately . . .”

Wilson stopped and pulled his hand away. “Sorry.”

“God, you’re such a girl.” House reached out and captured his hand again. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I was just trying to figure out what it meant.”

Wilson hesitated. Sure sign he was embarrassed or uncomfortable, or about to reveal some intimacy that House was almost one hundred percent positive he didn’t want to hear. 

“It calmed you down.”

“And now?”

“I didn’t realize I was doing it. Sorry.”

“Girl.”

“You should talk about girl. Been squealing like one for days.”

“Have not.”

“Nurses have it on tape. I’m sure you’ll get to hear it the next time you piss one of them off. Which, knowing you, should be in about an hour.”

“Deflecting. You’re deflecting.”

“I am not. I just don’t know what you want me to say. Yes, House, I have taken advantage of your compromised health to rub and caress and fondle every part of your body. Even the little heart-shaped mole on your . . .

“You saw my mole?”

“Who do you think undressed you? Every time. You think I would let Cuddy or the kids? Give me a little credit for wanting to spare you.”

“You undressed me?”

“I thought you hated the whole answering questions with questions thing.”

“Where’s your shoe?” House figured as long as he was drowning, he might as well take Wilson with him.

Wilson froze. Fidgeted. Looked at the ceiling. Put his other hand over House’s.  
Sighed. Licked his lips.

“I guess I’d better tell you.”

“Oh, no, just stand there and have a stroke – it’s much more entertaining.”

“Well, we had a meeting . . .”

 

**********

 

“I mean it – under no circumstances will you take the leg.”

“Wilson, calm down, I’m sure Dr. McCormick will do everything in his power to save House’s leg . . .”

“I want it in writing.”

Cuddy came around her desk. “We have all the necessary forms. What we don’t have is time. He’s got to get into that leg now. You know that.”

Wilson moved to the door, stood with hands on his hips. “I want it notarized.”

Dr. McCormick unfolded himself from the couch and stood. At six foot five he towered over Wilson. Big and loud and Texas bred. Intimidating in the best of circumstances. Wilson just dug his fists in further. Stuck out his chest.

“Hey there Jimmy,” McCormick drawled. “Don’t you worry about your House – I’ll take good care of that bum leg of his.” 

“Notarized, Cuddy. I mean it. I’ve got power of attorney – I can refuse the surgery.”

“Then he will lose the leg.” Cuddy rubbed her forehead.

“Oh, gimme that form, Dr. Cuddy. I’ll sign it. Don’t know why you’re so adamant about that leg. Ain’t worth a lick already – and that spiral’s gonna put him out of commission for a long time. But I don’t want him stroking out on my table and that’s precisely what he’s gonna do if we don’t get in there and get some blood flow back to his muscles.”

He scrawled his name and turned back to Wilson. “Relentless little bugger, aren’t you?”

Cuddy handed Wilson the form. “I’ll notarize it in a minute, okay?”

Wilson stepped aside and let McCormick pass. McCormick paused at the door and turned back to them. 

“You know I always thought Dr. House was an insufferable ass. Once stopped my surgery to check the room for mosquitoes – in December. I named him in my malpractice suit. But he must be doing something right to deserve this kind of stand-up loyalty from you two.”

“Well, as you know, Dr. House . . .” Cuddy began her well-practiced speech.

“I know Dr. Cuddy. And I’ll be real careful with your friend.”

He opened the door and stepped out just as Foreman, Chase, and Cameron rushed in.

Wilson sagged onto the couch. Had it really been only two hours since House fell? 

“McCormick?” Foreman turned to Cuddy. “You’re letting McCormick do it?”

Cuddy walked back around her desk and sank into her chair. She reached into her right hand drawer and pulled out a bottle and three glasses. Whiskey. The good stuff. She poured a liberal amount into each glass, and finally looked at Foreman.

“Yes, it’s McCormick. He’ll be fine.” She held up a glass. “You kids’ll have to share. Here Wilson – drink this.”

Chase took one glass from her hand, took a drink and handed it to Cameron, who shook her head. Foreman reached over her, grabbed the glass and drained it. Wilson hadn’t moved. Cuddy walked over and joined him on the couch, forcing the glass into his hand.

“Doctor’s orders.”

Wilson took a sip. “So now what?” he asked no one in particular.

“Now we wait.” Cuddy crossed her legs. “And we think of how we’re going to tell House that we let McCormick operate on him.”

“Shouldn’t one of us be there?” Cameron looked as if she were about to cry. Again.

“We’ll go in a minute. First we need to decide on a plan of action.”

“He’s going to be so pissed.” Chase grimaced. “Did you see the x-ray? One of the gnarliest spiral’s I’ve seen – and I did a year Ortho rotation.”

“Chase – shut up. You’re going to make Cameron cry again.” Foreman sat down on the couch.

“He is not. I’m fine. I just don’t know if House can deal with this. What is he going to do? He’s already addicted to Vicodin. He’s miserable. How much more can he take.”

“Not much.” Wilson downed his drink. “He’s going to be immobile for weeks. That part may kill him. Rumination is already his third specialty as it is.”

“If only we could induce a coma until his leg heals.” Cuddy shook her head. “He’s just going to have to deal with it.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen. There aren’t enough Gameboys in the world to keep his mind occupied for that long.” Foreman stood. “Especially with the post-op pain. He’ll come out of this more dependent than ever. I think I’d better go work on my resume.”

“Go watch McCormick. Let us when he’s about to close.” Cuddy turned to Wilson. “You know him best. What should we do?”

Wilson rubbed his face with his hands. What should they do? What could they do? He had always admired that giant intellect of House’s, envied it, used it on many occasions when his own mortal brain hit a dead end. But he also knew there was a down side to it. House needed distractions. Constantly. Almost more than he needed Vicodin. And if his actions lately had been bordering on self-destructive, he’d hate to see what would happen now . . .

Wilson snapped his fingers. “Red herring.”

Cuddy jumped. “Red herring?”

“He needs a red herring.”

“Iron? Fish oil? I’m sure we could try a nutritional supplement if you think . . .” Cameron offered.

“No – not to eat. To chew on. To discover. You know how he is – he eats puzzles, thrives on mysteries. We need to give him one. A diversion. A misdirection of some kind. Send him off on a wild goose chase, so he won’t focus on his leg. Or the pain.” Wilson stood and started to pace. “But it has to be subtle. He’ll know if it’s not just right.”

Cuddy nodded. “Something that will distract him without hurting him. But what?”

“We could turn the pictures upside down in his room,” Chase offered.

“How is that going to help?” Cameron rolled her eyes.

“Damn sight better than fish oil.”

“Barely.”

“Shut up you two.” Cuddy waved her hand at the door. “Go away – help Foreman. The grownups need to talk. We’ll let you know what we decide.”

Wilson watched them do just as they were told. He marveled at Cuddy’s authority. No wonder she was one of the few people to go head to head with House – and win.

“God – they would drive me crazy.”

“Well, they’re good doctors.”

“Yes, Pollyanna – they’re good doctors. Now what are we going to do?” Cuddy reached down and slid off her heels. “Here’s a real mystery. Why do I continue to buy these damn things?” She rubbed her foot. “Maybe House can figure that one out – why women torture themselves with footwear.”

“That’s it.” Wilson jumped up and turned to Cuddy. “Shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Shoes. He’s obsessed with them. He buys them like Tic Tacs. Always talking about them – boasts he can spot infidelity with them. It’s perfect.”

“You’ve lost me.” Cuddy got up and refilled her glass. “You want to buy House shoes? Wouldn’t that remind him of his condition? Shoes, feet, legs – the whole losing of the limb problem?”

“We should switch shoes.”

“Are you drunk? You want to wear these shoes? You with your whole foot thing?”

“What foot thing?”

“I guess it’s your sock thing – germs, whatever.”

Wilson crossed his arms. “I like clean socks. So?”

“No, you are obsessed with clean socks. What did House tell me – that you never walk on floors with your socks. Didn’t he name you – Always Wears Shoes, as your Indian name?”

**********

And this is what you came up with? Losing your shoe?” House was shocked. He had been to the ninth circle of hell and back and it was all because some odd prank cooked up by Partypants and Peter Pan. Sweet.

“It worked didn’t it?”

“No.”

“You didn’t think about your leg.”

“No, you didn’t bother to tell me about my leg. I thought plenty about my leg.”

“House, how many times did you ask me about my shoe?”

“Well it was an anomaly – and you know how I hate anomalies.”

“You love anomalies. You live for anomalies. You can’t get through the day without at least one juicy anomaly. You’re just pissed because you didn’t figure it out.” 

“I was delirious. In pain. The exact thing you were hoping the shoe would avoid.”

“No, we . . . you’re just being obtuse.”

“You are being obsfucatitive.”

“That’s not even a word.”

“How about osculate? You okay with that one?”

Wilson tried to pull his hand away, but House squeezed harder. “Come on, Jimmy, you said you’ve seen my mole. How can osculation be far behind?”

“You are either still delirious or completely cured.”

“Whatever works for you.” House smiled. After all the damn nightmares Wilson caused him, a little payback was only fair. And what glorious payback it was. Wilson was just about to come out of his . . . shoes. House moved in for the kill.

And was shocked when Wilson leaned over and planted a big wet kiss right on his lips. 

“Buh,” was all he could get out before the lips descended again. Wilson’s lips. Softer than his hands, which were clutching his shoulders, pulling him closer.  
He couldn’t catch his breath. The lips were relentless, grinding, coaxing his mouth open. All of a sudden he couldn’t get close enough.

The door slid open and Cuddy, Cameron, Chase and Foreman walked through and stopped dead. Well, Cuddy and Cameron stopped dead, which caused Chase to smack into Cameron. Foreman avoided the collision by stepping in front of them all, and let out a low whistle at the sight of the two men in a clinch. 

Cameron squeaked. Chase’s mouth dropped open and Cuddy walked over and sank into the chair, muttering, “About damn time.”

Wilson shoved himself off House’s chest so hard he slipped and twisted and landed on the floor in front of Cuddy. Chase, glad to have something to do, bent down to help him up. Cameron just stared at House, who had a big smirk on his face.

“Feeling better?” Cuddy drawled.

“Much. But you are all fired. So fired. In fact, you are beyond fired. There is not even a word that describes your level of fired-ness.”

“Why are we fired? You’re the one making out with Wilson.” Foreman moved to the foot of the bed.

“We were not making out . . . House was having trouble . . .” Wilson stuttered.

“Keeping my tongue in my mouth.” 

Chase burst out laughing and Foreman rolled his eyes. Cameron squeaked again.

“House – that is not true.” Wilson brushed off his shirt. He paused for a moment. “You were having trouble keeping your tongue in my mouth.”

The room fell silent as everyone turned to stare in shock at Wilson, who was calmly brushing off his pants. He looked up to see everyone looking at him.

“What? Only House can be outrageous. Shockingly inappropriate?”

Cuddy was the first to find her voice. “No, he’s just the only one who usually is.”

“Okay girls, you can talk later. I’m in the middle of getting rid of my entire staff.” 

“You are not. I will not let you fire them.” Cuddy stood and faced House. “I take it Wilson told you about the shoe?” 

House nodded. He felt a twinge in his leg. He wished Wilson would rub it. He missed Wilson’s hands. God, he was getting soft. Pining after Wilson. Not normally on the list of post-operative complications, so maybe it was some kind of virus. Leftover fever. Whatever it was, he needed a pill. For the pain. 

“You three, come here.”

They stood together at the end of the bed. House wished he had a camera. For Cameron’s kitten-just-got-hit-by-a-car expression alone.

“House . . .” Cuddy warned.

“Who do you work for?” House crossed his arms and looked stern.

“You.” Chase could always be counted on to suck up.

“And to whom do you owe your loyalty?”

“You?” Foreman scoffed. 

Foreman was not sufficiently contrite. House renamed him Quickest to Change Sides in a Fight.

“Yes, me. And whose careers depend on my recommendations?”

“My career . . .” Cameron finally came out of her coma. “My career does not depend . . .”

“So why did you wreck your car?” 

For the second time in five minutes, the room fell silent. Cuddy and Wilson exchanged a glance and Wilson shook his head. Confirmed the whole thing for House, but he couldn’t resist having a little more fun with them. If only his leg hadn’t started to throb and his head wasn’t falling off.

“She didn’t wreck her car.” Chase started fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

“I know – because you did.”

“How did you . . .”

“Oh, how you underestimate me. Here’s how it worked. Stop me if I’m wrong or if you just want to applaud. Wilson had to take Cuddy’s car home because Foreman had to use Wilson’s car to take Cameron home because Chase had to use Foreman’s car to go to the dentist. That’s what you two were arguing about when you walked in that morning. And Chase had oil on his hand. And a little yellow ticket sticking out of his pocket. Cameron, you didn’t have a car because it was Tuesday and on Tuesdays you and Cuddy work out together in the morning and you usually leave your car at the gym and ride in with Cuddy. And you are doubly fired because there is no time off for crying – you’d never come into work.”

“Leave them alone House. It was my idea.” Wilson walked over to the bed.

House looked at him and felt a twinge that had nothing to do with pain. Odd. He grabbed Wilson’s hand and looked at Cuddy.

“Get them out of here. Select the appropriate punishment. Break out your good whips, the Sunday leather. I need a nap. I’ve just had major surgery you know, Dr. Cuddy.”

Cuddy smiled and squeezed Wilson’s arm as she headed to the door. “Call me if you need help.” She shooed the others out the door. “Come on guys, I’ll buy you a drink.” 

House closed his eyes. He needed a pill. A shot. Another kiss. Definitely another kiss. But his body needed sleep. He cracked open an eye. “You’ll stay with me?”

“I’ve been here the whole time.” Wilson used his free hand to pull the chair closer.

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

“Took you long enough.” Wilson sat down in the chair, leaned back, and propped his feet up on the bed.

House started to protest but then saw Wilson’s feet. Wilson’s shoes. Not Wilson’s shoes. Wilson’s dream shoes. Nightmare shoes. Six inch stiletto heel sling back Prada fuck me shoes. Mint green.

This time he heard himself scream. All the way into the ninth circle of hell. Just like a girl.

 

Six Months Later. . . . 

House heard the lock turn in the door and quickly turned off the TV and picked up the newspaper. The door swung open and Wilson peered around it, hitching his bag up over his shoulder, dangling the stethoscope in his fingers. Those damn fingers. Long, pretty. And talented. So talented.

“Do you ever knock?” House ruffled his paper. He peeked over it and gave himself a high five at the look on Wilson’s face.

“You alone?”

“You holding a stethoscope?”

Wilson shrugged his bag off his shoulder and closed the door. He turned to face House, who had lowered his paper and was staring at him.

“House, I am too tired tonight. Find someone else to play with. Go prank call Cuddy.”

“Bad day at the office, honey?” House knew the answer, had known the answer the minute the key turned in the lock. Dr. Cancer had lost another one. 

“I mean it.” He tossed the stethoscope onto House’s lap. “Give me like an hour, okay?” He walked into the kitchen.

House struggled up off the couch, reached for his crutches, and hobbled into the kitchen. Wilson was standing at the refrigerator, drinking orange juice straight out of the carton.

“What’s for dinner?”

Wilson replaced the carton, grabbed a beer, and closed the door with his hip.

“Oh, no none for me, thanks.” House leaned on one crutch, watching.

Wilson ignored him and plopped down on the sofa, grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, beer top sent spinning in the general direction of the coffee table. House hobbled to the doorway and watched as Wilson took a long pull on the bottle and then circled the neck with his fingers, sliding his hand down the green glass, wiping off the water droplets. And then again. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. House could barely breathe.

“You do that again and I’ll give you more than an hour.” House had to lean against the doorway. Sure rehab was going well, but even the legs of an Olympic sprinter couldn’t hold steady at the sight of those hands caressing that bottle. Damn.

“Do what?” Wilson propped his feet on the coffee table and took another drink. 

House couldn’t figure out if this was the great seduction or the great blow-off. Wilson was excellent at both. An expert, really. House had learned to distinguish between the two fairly quickly in the months following his surgery, when they had practically lived in each other’s pockets. But then there were days when Wilson just shut it all down. Went somewhere even House couldn’t follow.

“Either come here or fix dinner – just don’t stand there staring at me.”

“Fix dinner?” Definitely not the great seduction. Nothing good ever came from House fixing dinner. 

He slid in next to Wilson. Used both hands to lift his leg and place it gingerly on the coffee table. Wilson grabbed the pillow behind his back, lifted House’s leg and gently tucked it under his knee, his eyes never leaving the TV. House leaned over and captured Wilson’s hand.

“Wanna have sex?” House looked at him, eyes wide, eyebrows raised.

Wilson sighed and pulled his hand back. “Yes, House, that’s exactly what I want to do.” He picked up the remote and turned up the sound.

“Come on, Jimmy.” House crossed his arms. “Talk to me.”

“You don’t want to talk. You want to have sex.”

“Well, yes, but we can talk during, right? You like that.” House inched closer to Wilson. “What if I say please?”

Wilson rolled his eyes, clicked off the TV and turned to House. “You have got to go back to work. You are driving me crazy.”

“I could drive you crazy, if you’d let me.” House laid his head on Wilson’s shoulder. “Pretty please?”

Wilson sighed. Put his beer on the table. Laid a hand on House’s knee. Sent a shudder right through House, who wondered for the hundredth time just what spell he had fallen under. Those damn hands. Lethal. In a good way.

“So if I give you what you want, you’ll leave me alone?”

“Mother may I?”

Wilson got up and headed for the bedroom, loosening his tie and dropping it on the floor. House scrambled for his crutches, hissing as he jarred his leg in a hurry to follow. 

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he muttered as he rounded the corner of the couch.

Wilson, already in the bedroom, poked his head out. “Everything all right out there?”

House made a face at him. “Cripple walking here, remember?”

Wilson’s answer was to toss his perfectly pressed button down silk shirt out the door, where it landed in a pile in the hallway. House stopped for a moment. How in the hell could that turn him on? He amended his diagnosis to great seduction. Great seduction. Really great seduction.

He scooped up the stethoscope, opened the door, hung it on the knob, and locked it. As he watched Wilson’s perfectly creased, gabardine trousers join the shirt, he chuckled. And increased his pace.

He ducked when a leather loafer whizzed by his head, hit the wall, and landed on top of the pants. He looked into the room to see Wilson naked on his bed. He leaned against the door, crossed his arms and smirked.

“Wilson, where’s your other shoe?”


End file.
